CHAPTER XXXVI.
BETTY BEARDS THE LION.
It was perhaps a week later, but as fair and peaceful a summer evening as that when Priscilla Alden showed herself more worldly-wise than vain, that Myles Standish, according to his constant custom, climbed the Captain’s Hill to sit upon the sunset seat, and with sad eyes fixed upon the horizon line to muse in lonely bitterness upon the sorrow he endured but did not accept. Half an hour of solitude no more than sufficed to deaden the physical pain, aggravated by the steep climb, against which the soldier in his latter years fought in the grim silence of hopelessness, and with a long breath of relief he leaned back against one of the trees supporting the seat and wiped his forehead. The sound of a light footstep, the rustle of a woman’s dress, disturbed him, and with a sudden flush of emotion he turned, half fancying that Lora herself had come to meet him at her favorite tryst.
But instead of the fair pale face, the golden hair, and spiritual blue eyes of his daughter, it was the joyous and brilliant face of Betty Alden, or as we now must learn to call her, Bettie Pabodie, subdued indeed by tenderest sympathy, but rich in color, in light, in abounding health, that met his gaze, and with a peevish exclamation he turned away, fixing his eyes again upon the water.
“Mayn’t I come and sit with you a little minute, Captain?” asked Betty, seeing and hearing all, but noticing nothing, and without waiting for reply she sank down upon the other end of the bench, and for some minutes remained quite silent; then she said very softly,—
“I came here to find you, sir, for it seemed to me the fittest place.”
“For what?” asked the father hoarsely, as his unwelcome companion paused.
“To speak of one I loved more than ever I loved mine own sisters.” And the round firm voice grew very sweetly tender and tremulous, for it spoke no more than the truth.
“I cannot talk of her—I know you loved her, and she you—but”—
Again there was silence, for the great heart bled inwardly and made no sign. At last the girl ventured again:—
“Oh, forgive me, sir, if I seem to fail of respect to your wish, or of tenderness to your exceeding sorrow, but there’s something she fain would have you know. God forgive me if I profanely touch his mysteries, but it seems to me that she who has gone straight to his presence has been sent to bring to mind words she spoke and I never yet have dared repeat. Will you say nay to her wish, dear and honored friend?”
“Words she said?” echoed the father, and, uncovering his face, he turned and fixed upon Betty such stern demanding eyes, that even her high courage almost quailed; but though her lips turned pale, she steadfastly replied,—
“Yes, words she said in the night before she went. Only I heard them.”
“And God,” suggested the captain as severely as if he were administering an oath.
“And God who hears me now,” replied Betty, her eyes meeting his so bravely and so truthfully that his own softened as he said,—
“I marvel that you feared to tell me anything I ought to know.”
“I did not exactly fear, sir, but I knew ’twould be unwelcome, and mayhap too soon to do good.”
“Well. Leave skirmishing, and come out boldly with whatever it may be. I’ll listen, at least.”
And folding his arms and setting his lips, the soldier faced her with just the mien he would have worn in submitting to an amputation upon the field of battle. An answering courage lighted the face of the young woman, and although Standish did not then consciously notice how beautiful she was, doubtless that beauty made itself felt.
But brave as she was, Betty could not steadily endure the sombre flame of eyes that seemed to pierce the very core of her heart, and her own gaze, after a little wandering, fixed upon the thatched roof-tree in the plain below, where her baby girl lay asleep in its cradle, and her voice was calm and steady as she made reply.
“It was in the last night that our dear Lora was with us, and you had just gone somewhat hastily out of the room and out of the house”—
“Ay.”
“And Lora looked after you a moment while her lips moved in prayer. Then she turned to me and said,—
“‘Dear father! He’ll miss me sore, and he’ll grieve out of measure that he denied me my love,’”—
A bitter, bitter groan burst from the father’s lips, and he buried his face in his hands for a moment, but uttered no word. Betty paused for a moment, and went on more softly,—
“‘But tell him when he can bear it,’ said she, ‘that it made no difference and it did no harm. Before ever Wrestling spoke to me I had heard one say to my soul, The Master hath come and calleth for thee! and I have long been ready, ay, and fain to go.’”
“Said she so! Said my maid so! ‘Ready, ay, and fain to go’?”
“They are her very words, her very, very words.”
“I can believe it; I can believe my own lass would find some way to comfort me, even from the grave where she is laid.”
“Nay, dear sir, from the heaven whither she has gone to live forever.”
“I can believe that, too, from your lips, child, for you come to me as an angel. More, tell me more.”
“I cannot tell all her words after those, for she grew faint and weak, and much was lost, but I gathered that her mind dwelt much upon some story Gillian Brewster had told her of a far away foreign convent, and she spoke of the leaves of a great tree that ever waved across an open door, and brought cool breezes to her head. I believe she wandered a little in her mind, and then she grew very still, and after a while she opened her eyes and smiled up into mine the while she whispered, ‘’Tis Mary and not Sally that will comfort him best. She’ll be a daughter to him in a place next to mine. Tell him so.’ Then she shut her eyes again, and we spoke no more alone.”
“And it is all true truth?”
“All God’s truth, sir. Oh, do you think I could say otherwise?”
“No. I know you could not. Wait.” And with his head bowed upon his breast the captain took counsel with himself for many minutes. At last he looked at Betty, whose bright face now was pale with exhaustion, and said almost harshly,—
“I knew not that she cared overmuch for Mary Dingley; they were little enough alike.”
“No; but don’t you see, sir,” replied Betty with a sort of sweet impatience, “that it was not her own likings or her own pleasure she was thinking of, but of you and your happiness? Even if she had misliked Mary and knew she would be a good daughter to you, she would have said the same.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right, girl, you’re right, and I’m but a poor, blind, selfish old man. She’d have me think of others more than of myself. The mother getting old and no daughter to help her, no little children to cheer her,—yes, I see, my maid, I see, and I’ll do your bidding—if I can.”
“Oh, no, sir, not my bidding”—
“I know, I know, lass, and for all thy high spirit thou wert ever maiden meek and mild to thine elders. But it was not to thee I spoke just then. Yet now I will have thee to advise with me, for, truth to tell, I am a little fogged and stunned with all these matters, and since my sweet maid left me I’ve grown old and doddering—no, never mind naysaying me, I know what I know. What I will have thee tell me, Betty, is this. Shall I—would Lora have me bid Josiah bring his wife home—and let her sit in—Oh, my God! I cannot, I cannot”—
He covered his face again, and for some moments Betty sat in respectful silence, then, moving nearer, laid a light touch upon the shoulder heaving under its mighty struggle for self-control.
“Not in Lora’s place, dear sir,” said she softly. “No one can take that e’en if she would, and Mary Dingley would not an she could. I know her well, and a milder, gentler, sweeter maid no longer lives on earth. She is one who will ever bear your grief in mind, yet never speak of it; one who will give you a daughter’s duty and tendance, yet never press for a daughter’s freedom; one who will love you as much as you will let her, yet never be nettled at thought you do not love her as you might. She is as fond of Josiah as woman can be of man, yet modest and meek and shamefast as a maid should ever be. Oh, sir, she is a girl among a thousand, I do assure you, and if you will open house and heart to her you shall never, never repent of it.”
“The maid must be worth something who can claim so leal a friend in you, Betty Alden.”
And across that worn and haggard face gleamed a smile such as had not been seen there since Lora died. The certainty of success shot like a sharp pain through Betty’s heart, and for a moment broke down the courage which failure would only have stimulated. Turning suddenly away, and leaning her head against a tree-trunk, she drew a long, gasping breath and burst into tears.
Was not Priscilla’s intuition justified, and her theory proven? Had it been she herself, or any woman of her age and strong character, she would have learned self-control and so lost her best weapon; or if she had fallen into tears, the man would have simply felt that the weakness of age had overtaken her, and would have doubted the soundness of her advice. But when sweet-and-twenty weeps honestly and fervidly, and from a loving, honest heart, no man between thirty and seventy looks unmoved upon those tears; nor did Myles Standish, as hastily rising he hovered over the girl, not touching her, for no Spaniard ever treated his Infanta with more respect than this true gentleman showed to every woman, but pulling out a great handkerchief and making little futile efforts to apply it, while he incoherently exclaimed in almost the voice he might have used to Lora,—
“Why, there now, there, dear heart,—nay, child, for pity’s sake—why, my little lass, don’t ’ee take on so. Nay, what shall I say to pleasure thee? Come, now, Betty, come, now, dry up thine eyes like a good girl, and I’ll give thee—what shall I give thee? If thou wert mine own lass I’d give thee a kiss”—
“And I’ll give you one as it is, sir,” cried Betty, and turning like a flash, she threw her arms around the old man’s neck and pressed upon his cheek two lips so soft, so warm, so sweet, that a streak of dark red mounted to his temples, and taking the girl’s head between his hands he kissed her forehead with a strange stir of reverent tenderness at his heart.
“Betty, my lass, thou’st done a good work to-day,” said he simply, and she, with a smile and a, sob struggling for preëminence, murmured,—
“Thank God!”